


Frostsong

by euphyeggs



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alcohol, Background story, F/M, Family backstory, Female Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Found Family, Gen, Ishgard (Final Fantasy XIV), Lore Exploration, Midlander Hyur (Final Fantasy XIV), Multi, Nightmares, Religious Conflict, Religious Guilt, Slight Canon Divergence, Survivor Guilt, Tumblr: FFXIVwrite2020, Vaginal Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:53:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 19,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26507773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euphyeggs/pseuds/euphyeggs
Summary: On losing a home, looking for it in all the wrong places, and finding right where you left it.Various snippets and some prompt fills for FFXIVwrite2020 involving my WoL's prototype Warrior of Light Verse.
Relationships: Warrior of Light/Estinien Wyrmblood, Warrior of Light/Grinnaux de Dzemael, Warrior of Light/Thancred Waters
Comments: 17
Kudos: 14
Collections: Emet-Selch's Wholesomely Debauched Bookclub FFXIV-Writes 2020 Collection





	1. crux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _n._ the decisive or most important point at issue.  
> haurchefant & euphemie, 2.0 post-banquet angst, and learning to let others help you pick up the pieces.

Here was the wrong place and the wrong time.

The title she had been given had never been clear cut by definition—if anything, it was akin to a child’s tale, a hero who led the masses towards the ultimate good. The Warrior of Light. The cards she had been dealt, the choices she made, hearing it repeated by the tens and hundreds in the streets of different cities, different tongues—as did the weight of her responsibility grew tenfold. People recognized her by her own deeds cut by her own halberd and her own words. She no longer lived in the confines of a family bound by tradition to act in respect to those passed decades ago. In giving herself, she found herself, and became her own person.

For a short while, being the Warrior of Light was liberating.

And yet, the allegations upon her which in a span of five years may still dwell as a fresh memory in the minds of too many, could doom their progress forever. Part of her mind wished to dwell in the realm of magical thinking, to ask whether or not she deserved this for thinking she could enjoy a role so demanding of her, for thinking she could finally find a place in the world again. For thinking she could be part of a family again.

When she fled the scene of the banquet, and unwillingly left behind one person after the other in their insistence on keeping her, the light, safe and sound and away from danger—she could feel the familiar grasp of an accusation, tight at her throat, suffocating. Brass Blades and Crystal Braves kept at their pursuit and her name was heavy and loud on their tongues, heard from several yalms away. The Inquisitors and Temple Knights had done the same.

And she had every reason to believe that they would do so again.

But Euphemie had come to Coerthas with no options left open, no other arms left to offer succor. Had she been on her own, without Alphinaud and Tataru in tow, she may have been less inclined to follow through so willingly with Haurchefant’s offer, as well-meaning as he could be. But Euphemie is no longer _just_ herself, no longer living by her own compass alone—even now, she still carried the hopes and aspirations of many. It was a feeling she was now forced to re-visit, a feeling that came all too often with loss, and now was just the same. She had left Ishgard before with no one but a knight under her family’s now tattered banner, and though he had remained beside her all the years since then hadn’t been present at the banquet, and now she realized it may have been a blessing in disguise that he refused to join the Crystal Braves. She hopes the same for him as she does with the rest of the Scions, that they will meet again sooner than expected, that some semblance of their warmth would return.

Upon their arrival at Dragonhead, Haurchefant was quick to recognize the dimmed shine to her eyes in the intercessory, even as she attempted to encourage the disheartened Alphinaud. In Euphemie, he’d found a match when it came to expressing themselves wholeheartedly, an openness proven difficult to find anywhere in Coerthas. The occasions in which they worked alongside one another were brief yet meaningful—to his liking, anyway—but now Euphemie was sullen, and spared most of her thoughts from him. Understandable, he thought—but once he saw her flinch hard at the mention of his father allowing them sanctuary in Ishgard, he could stay the questions no longer.

She didn’t look at him for a solid few minutes when he asked her—politely and devoid of judgment, of course—but she took a harsh breath before speaking.

“Do you recall what befell the Baron Dansereau and the rest of his family?”

A faint memory, a sad one but not one he knows too much about. Another questionable case of accused heretics, that ended in the worst scenario imagined. Was it a sister or daughter that was never put to trial? He had heard whispered exchanges between girls and women alike, how she sprouted wings before they could find her, and flown back to where she came from.

When he responds, she looks him in the eye, pure, unadulterated terror in her gaze.

“The one who fled was me.”

Her answer takes him aback, staring at her, not out of the impending judgment she feared but out of concern, out of a growing understanding. Euphemie had told him now to spare him the shock that may come later, when they find her out past the Gates of Judgment, where she has no chance of escaping a second time. This is why, he realizes, why she was so passionate and full of fury when Francel had been wrongfully implicated—why her eyes back then were sharp as daggers towards the man masquerading as the Inquisitor Guillaime. She had seen it all before. She had known it all too well.

“That’s why—” She bit her lip hard to hide a sob, feeling his gaze even as she lowered her head. At the least, she believed it to be a look of pity—if he was to cast her out and have her and her friends seek out shelter elsewhere, it was still a mercy. Tataru drifted closer to her, hands raised in an effort to comfort in spite of being teary-eyed herself.

“…That’s why I fear I will bring more harm than good to you as I already am.”

At this he frowned, brows knit in what looked as if he’d taken offense.

“As far as I can say, my friend, you have yet to grow wings.”

Her eyes widened, and she almost gasped out loud at what his light jest implied, and he knelt to her level. The shine of his eyes seems to have brightened after her confession, brightened enough for the two of them combined.

“But the fact of the matter is—you live now. And you escaped death twice. I daresay that’s all the more reason to keep at it.” The glow of the fireplace hits the side of his face just perfectly, like he’s some kind of godsend from the Fury herself. Euphemie felt like a mess in her gown, red with a curtain of black lace now weighed heavy by the cold and snow, her long hair tangled and clung to her cheeks. While she and Tataru had been eager for the chance to dress up nicely for a stellar occasion, the latter hadn’t even glimpsed her in all her finery until they reunited in the aftermath. Now all of it seemed so appallingly foolish, as miniscule of an indulgence as it had been.

Haurchefant nudged a mug of something warm against her hand, and when her fingers held around it they brushed against his own.

She blushed as he smiled and stood, turning to Alphinaud to offer his own rallying words. The hot chocolate was far too good for a place as austere as this, but the warmth did its part in helping her return his smile. Even Tataru was caught by a single smile’s contagious nature, and she nodded cheerfully after having a sip of her own. How even the most mundane of things such as hot chocolate and the power of someone else believing in her were not to be taken for granted.

Perhaps she would have enough strength to keep from behind the tall grey pillars, to keep her from lingering in the shadow-cloaked corners. Euphemie was no longer alone in this endeavor, as she had been when she fled—regardless of how ambivalent she, and the rest of Eorzea must feel towards it—Euphemie was still the Warrior of Light. Even if her surname held more notoriety here than elsewhere, she still carried more with her than she ever had before. She had merit, not by blood, but by deeds, by her own resolve. There was still a faint heartbeat that quickened in its rhythm with every hopeful gaze still left looking towards her.

Maybe here was the right place at the right time.


	2. sway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _v._ move or cause to move slowly or rhythmically backward and forward or from side to side.  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> evangeline de dansereau is my ishgardian hyur oc and euphemie's grandmother.

The rosary swayed at least a head above the small girl, its crystalline beads caught in the light of a winter morning. Evangeline smiled warmly at the sight of the tiny child on her tiptoes, reaching for the treasured artifact that the girl still took for yet another toy.

While some would find it ironic that the family matriarch would allow her such an indulgence, Evangeline saw much of herself in the bubbly tot, dusky rose-blonde ringlets against plump rosy cheeks, eyes with a perpetual sparkle. Evangeline’s hair was much longer, but swept in a tidy bun, the prominence of her high cheekbones serving as one of the few traces of her age. Even amongst the Elezen noblewomen she held a stately countenance, compassionate yet refined, with naught a soul among her peers to call a true friend. She privately detested being swarmed by a crowd who masqueraded their gossip with the so-called womanly acts of tea and sewing but did so for the sake of maintaining a social standing, for the sake of upholding her son’s good standing.

And it was in the birth of her granddaughter that her the dull motions of daily life received a breath of fresh air, the spark of something new. Christened Grace Isolde Euphemie de Dansereau, her arrival was met with lukewarm reception—already while the babe was being cleaned and swaddled there was talk of which houses had a son in need of a bride. One such fool brought up the possibility that the child would instead become a knight of their Dzemael liege, and said fool was shoved out of the room before the already dismayed mother could lunge at him.

Knowing all too well the lack of attention the child would receive, Evangeline had taken it upon herself to accompany Euphemie’s wet nurse whenever possible. Apart from planning on how to groom the child for the expectations of he rank, the Lady Dansereau treated the infant with cool apathy, and the most affection she gave her was in awe of her pristine appearance—more often than not followed with a prideful notion of how the Dansereau women were quite known for it. And that was where Euphemie pleased her mother the most, when she was still and noiseless and looking around with her big pearly eyes at the sights and sounds around her, for when she moved the praises ended. Only three summers and already Euphemie had shown much of a budding personality, leaving the servants scampering after her while she ran the halls only partly-dressed, picking one too many candies from the multi-tiered cake stand when heads were turned. Up to now, the portrait her father had commissioned for her was still in the making, as they were all still mired in searching for a way to that would keep the child seated and sated for over a minute.

An exasperation to most of her elders, an entertainment for strangers, a delight for her own grandmother. But Evangeline’s son and his wife would dwell in the hope that their daughter would not be like this forever, that this moment of trial would give way to something more subdued, quiet, and most of all, pious—in the way that a pearl was roughed and rubbed of its imperfections before its final product. Sooner than later would their Euphemie take her place beside a man in a preferably higher station than their own, another rung up the ladder for the Dansereaus in their lofty pursuit of power.

But in the here and now, the darling little girl was still with her, in the safety of their city manor. She eagerly palmed at the intricate figure that hung at the center of the crystalline beads, and her unspoken curiosity brought a smile to her grandmother’s lips.

“You were named in honor of her, dearest.” Evangeline held her closer against her chest with her free hand as the other still clung to the other end of the rosary.

“We all pray that you will walk in the Fury’s grace, in all that you may do.” Euphemie only babbled in response, looking like a cat batting at a bird. Her grandmother did her best to watch it all in slow motion, knowing that such carefree moments as these were as fleeting as the bloom and wither of a flower. She eventually withdrew the rosary into the heart of her palm and tilted the girl’s head gently backwards so she could view her cherub-like features in full, thumbing the edge of her sweet mouth.

“And though you were not what was desired you will always be precious to me.”


	3. muster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _v._ collect or assemble (a number or amount).  
> tataru & euphemie, 2.0 in the early days of the crystal braves, friends being friends.

"Well, you'll never guess who I found atop the gate today."

"Is it that dastardly Wood Wailer who was in league with the imperials?" Tataru scowled up at her. She had to cling to her better nature to keep from slipping a pin inside the man's uniform for the trouble he'd put the others through.

"He seems to be trying, I'll give him that credit."

"It can be such a chore to feign kindness to someone you don't like one bit." Tataru sighed as she slid a signed document to the completed pile.

“My grandmother and I used to play a game. For every person we would see pass by the window, I had to say something nice about them.” Euphemie puffed her cheeks and let out a snort, arms crossed as she leaned against the wall.

“It was so much easier to do the opposite. There were plenty of people who I never liked even back then…” She sighed thinking of all the times she’d been pried off the window for making faces at passerbys whom she knew and loathed. She never understood how her grandmother could maneuver through the web of sweet sounding lies when she of all people knew what was actually true. In Euphemie's case, she had to muster up all the strength in the world to say anything nice to someone she hated, even if she knew she didn't mean it.

"Was living in Ishgard really that deplorable?" Tataru eyed her from behind the desk, and though she was supposed to be mulling over paperwork for the Braves her attention had been gripped by Euphie's musings.

The initial silence left the Lalafell in suspense as Euphie's gaze turned towards the ceiling in thought. She had spent all her time away from it magnifying the worst parts of her years there, a great deal of it because remembering the better times proved more painful to bear. She would not miss the injustice, the arrogance and the general hypocrisy that ruled the mores of the upper class with an iron fist, but she would miss those who made it all worthwhile, those who made it home.

"...It wasn't all bad. Like all places." She hastily added, unwilling to slip into melancholy outside her own mind.

"But you were born there, were you not? If I may be frank, Euphemie, you're nothing at all like what I thought Ishgardians would be like." The way she said it was meant to be a compliment, tied together with a warm smile. But the one Euphie returned was only half as cheerful, as the feeling of unease started to set in. She was no ordinary Ishgardian, after all. Technically not even supposed to be one.

"But! If someone as wonderful as yourself came from there, then they must have done something right." Ever optimistic, the receptionist attempted to raise her spirits yet again, this time lowering the document she had been holding to prove her full sincerity.

"As of late, you've been given no end of tasks to fulfill, and you're always obligated to go to and fro, and yet you never once left the Rising Stones without saying a word to me. You've never once said that I've little to offer the Scions--"

"Hang onto that thought." Euphemie blinked, surprised at the sudden course their talk was going.

"Have I ever given you a thought that I might believe that?"

Tataru stopped short of her encouragement, her small arms outstretched in expression frozen in mid-air.

"I...I..."

"Oh, Tataru." Euphemie drew closer to the side of the desk, a smile slowly spreading its way across her lips.

"You know how many stiff-necked people there are here, and while I do appreciate their contribution to both the Scions and the Braves, not many of them are as easy to talk to as yourself. Even if you're always working you do so because you have everyone else's interests in mind, and I think that's wonderful enough on its own."

The shorter lass's eyes widened and threatened to brim with tears, fingers curling tight into her palms.

"You...really mean that?"

"Come now, when do I not mean anything?" She swayed her head to the side, her loose waves of dusky rose swept across her shoulder.

Tataru sniffled but smiled wider past her tears. Even back when she attempted the art of the arcanist, or insisted on fetching a gift at Costa del Sol, Euphemie had always entertained her wishes. Whether or not it was the Antecedent's intervention, the Lalafellin never felt like she was slighted by their Warrior of Light, even when there were more important matters to attend to.

"Wh-when you talk to Thancred--"

"Alright touche." Euphemie coughed, and averted her gaze to the area around them just in case anyone heard them. Especially a certain someone.

"But I do mean it. Truly. And thank you for your kind words." Her smile returned, this time fuller and brighter.

"I always look forward to seeing you whenver I return."


	4. clinch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _n._ confirm or settle (a contract or bargain).  
> like north and south, fire and ice, what makes them so different is what brings them together.  
> estphie. realm of thoughts & relationship musings. general spoilers for heavensward msq.  
> cw for slight religious themes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no excuses, i just wanted to write more about euphie and estinien and them either together or apart.

Euphemie can wear many things well–lace, leather, steel–but bitterness is not one of them. 

Anything that serves to weigh her down rather than raise her up was harder to discard when she couldn’t see it, when she could still _feel_ it. She hated being a person who rode out passion in the entirety of its fire, blazing and burning and charring everything in it’s path, threatening to send her to her knees whenever the first spark cracked. She bites her lip and retaliates, drowning her fires in thick blankets during the day only for them to return in full force by nightfall. 

She prefers being alone with the lanterns dimmed and the curtains drawn, relishing the loneliness with her bare soles buried under several layers of blankets, alone with her thoughts and the splintering firewood. The bedroom in the Fortemps manor is not unlike the one she had years ago, as a child with tousled hair with her nose buried in stolen books from her father’s collection. How little she had thought of repercussions before, of the fiery pits of a multi-layered hell. How overconfident she had been even later on, believing she could get away from bent-kneed suitors with the only intimacy in life being with a knight whose sporadic visits still left her wide-eyed and giddy in the morning afters, in the wake of her so-called contribution, Halone not be proud.

But those days were long over. Though she still had no desire to see what became of it, Dansereau Manor was likely turned into something else, something more practical, or remodeled to fit the needs of someone with enough gil on their hands. Her so-called knight was in a position too high for almost anyone to reach, yet somehow managed to live a life more hypocritical than he did before. The Foundation of her youth, where she had caught snowflakes on her tongue, was covered in spills of shattered stone, haphazard piles of splintered wood. The young, warm faces she knew had become hardened by things she hadn’t been there to see, things she thought she could get away from. 

But now it came down on her all at once with the force of a thundering avalanche, of a storm in whiteout. 

Perhaps none of them changed as much as the shepherd boy-turned-dragoon. Foolish enough of her to think she could still find something familiar in him, even with the edge of his spear pointed in her direction, even with how he’d denounced her once he recognized her. Foolish enough of him to go against everything he said and tried to prove, and the fresh memory of his callused fingers against her smooth, warming skin, of the ends of his silvery hair tickling her collarbone, of his lips hot on hers. The fact that he proved himself wrong wrought a wide grin at the corners of her mouth, one good thing gained, though definitely not promised, but with the way things are going she’ll take what she can get. 

Oh she’ll prove herself wrong too, certainly. She grumbles facefirst into the pillow in aggravation at every single time he turned his back on her to leave, always with the most unsatisfying of parting words. This is nothing like the knight she could leave behind with little regret. She had been with Estinien far less, but what they had was far more. Euphemie dreaded that what they said about the best things in the world ending faster than anything else would be proven true in her case, as she was tired enough of being made an example of. 

It felt heavy to be hopeful, moreso now than ever before. Even after winning the trial for her own innocence of the incident that had the Temple Knights hot on her heels years ago she still felt heavy. It’d done little but embitter her further, at her own shallow thinking, at her own naivete to think that maybe proving herself would somehow avail her of her long-carried burden. Now Euphemie simply worried that all it had done was turn her from supposed perpetrator to victim. 

Even if she’d known the truth all along, what was the point of proving it other than to satisfy her own ego, than to give her some sort of validation? 

And so, she still felt no reason to hold her head high. Her friends are still missing. The war is still going. Things were thrown into disarray once again, and all she can do is hide, and while she’d been reassured time and time again that it was only temporary, it did little to make it better. One demon after another arose from the depths to haunt her facefirst, after her efforts of dodging them, underestimating them, had finally been dashed. And while a great many now knew of her tumultuous past, they would still never know what she hid in her heart. Facts could be shared, feelings didn’t have to be–and she planned on keeping it that way. 

Thankfully, in a position like hers, the latter was far less sought after in the first place. 


	5. matter of fact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _adj._ unemotional and practical.  
> 
> 
> thancred/euphemie, set after defeating ardbert in 3.1.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wanted to do a little angst and with a plot like the msq the possibilities are endless! fortunately there's fluff. as a treat.

She broke from the kiss with a slight tilt of her eyebrow, fingertips against the side of her dimpled cheek. 

“Prickly?” He snickers.

“Nothing I can’t handle.” She intertwines their fingers in a tight hold by his side, warmth felt through the leather of their gloves. He smile fades as he assesses her, with her high cheekbones more prominent and shadows under the weight of wistful eyes. Still captivating, but weary and worn by adversity brought on by an injustice–

She saw how his jaw clenched and felt guilty that it was due to seeing her in such a state, keeping a smile out of worry. Both of them it was pointless, for she never wore it well enough to fool him.

“I–I’m sorry. It’s been a long night.” Few months was more accurate. 

“No. Don’t be. I’m the one who…” 

“Don’t you start on that either.” Her gaze suddenly turns sharp as steel, tearing her hand away from his.

“Just. Just…” As soon as the storm in her eyes arrived, it dissipated, and she took her gaze to the ground at their feet, licking her lips in trepidation for what he could’ve said, for what he might say. Thancred was just as disarming as she was, and for that their bond was that of a double-edged sword, a double confirmation of what they already knew to be true but tried so desperately to hide. 

“…don’t.” She’s already heard more than enough hypotheticals, born from both honesty and platitude, and she wasn’t about to let the man she loved do the same. 

But it doesn’t work, as his lips peel and his teeth clench harder.

“Am I not allowed to _worry_ for you, Euphemie? All this time I spent looking for you! Not knowing where in gods you could’ve gone–” 

“And _I_ was the same!” The hand that held his turns into a fist against her chest.

“I didn’t know where you were, either. If you shared the fate as the others, if I could even see you again. And it was because I–”

He bobbed his chin, eyes bright with bitter mirth.

“Ha! As you can see, you’re guilty of the same.” He can be this raw, this self-deprecating around her–not for long, but for a moment. Because she has the same moments he does, the same poison of feeling inadequate to what the world wanted from them, to what they wanted from themselves. 

“…Shut up.” She whimpers, drawing her arms tight around her, head bent downwards as the tears began to fall. Euphemie hates herself for running back at Ul’dah, for leaving him and the others behind, so she won’t run now. But her other alternative of hiding is even impossible with him right in front of her, so all she can do is hide her tears to save her from some sort of humiliation, a humiliation that he saw as anything but. He had a mind to believe her tears were long overdue, swallowing as he drew close and took her in his arms, fast enough to keep her from fighting it. 

She believes she doesn’t deserve the comfort of being held, but he could care less for thoughts so untrue. He’ll hold her even if she did fight it, kicking and screaming and punching his chest, because out of everything he wishes he can give her–everything she truly deserves–this is the best he can do. And it’s far from the most he can do, but the time for decisive combat and political wiles can wait, because none of that can be done while she’s sobbing her very existence out against his chest.

Whatever words she attempted to speak were lost in the mix of shaky breaths and heavy sobs, as he ran his fingers through her hair, long and soft like the feathers of a dove, like the wings of an angel. Not that he’s ever met one other than her, downed and wingless, but still merciful enough to accept his embrace, still merciful enough to let him love her.


	6. nonagenarian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _n._ a person who is from 90 to 99 years old.
> 
> a moment in the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the word was taken in the context of dragons (i tried).

“Well, I don’t see how living so long can benefit anyone of our standing.”

Euphie rolled back onto the grass as her companion turned to look at her. 

“And why do you say that? I think there’s plenty to get from having far more time.” 

“Doing what? Knitting? Dancing? Reading?” Arms folded behind her head, she followed a drifting cloud in the sky high above them. Claudine had never known any other young lady in Ishgard within their rank who preferred leather gloves over lace, laced alpine boots over heeled dancing shoes. At least, not one outside the knighthood. Euphemie had confided in her that even knighthood was out of the option, and when Claudine had pressed to know why, she insisted that doing so was living by yet another set of rules, as if being an Ishgardian citizen alone was lacking in any of them.

“You have more than enough patience for both of us, Claudine.” 

“Some of us actually take pleasure in it.” The other girl puffed her cheeks and pivoted closer as her friend snickered. 

“I suppose being any good at it has to do with that.” Claudine turned away out of guilt, fingers lax atop her lap.

“You always talk of running away.” The brunette’s voice dipped in tone.

“But you’ve never even tried. You’ve tried so many things, Euphemie–more things than you’ve been held accountable for. Except that.” 

“Are you trying to tell me something, Claudie?” Euphemie propped herself up on her elbows and sent a grin in her friend’s direction. 

“When I leave a note on my bed, I’ll be sure to mention your claim to that silver dress you always had an eye on–”

“You know that’s not what I meant!” Claudine’s cheeks grew darker in embarrassment, a sight that threw her friend into a small fit of giggles. 

“It’s just unlike you to say something and then not show anything for it.” 

“Well in case you didn’t know, planning an escape isn’t the simplest of undertakings.” Euphemie spoke as a matter-of-factly, feigning a judgmental glare.

“Unless you want to see me as fodder for the Yetis.” Claudine could only smile wearily, since even in jest such an image was…unpleasant. The other girls wouldn’t be able to withstand the sort of brazen talk Euphemie was fond of, which was why Claudine was one of her few true friends. 

“…You’ll have to make up your mind soon, you know.”

“About what?”

“Whether or not you want to join me.” The stunning Hyuran now mirrored her, sitting with her own legs hugged to her chest, something more heartfelt in her silvery gaze. Both her own kin and their peers lamented that she hadn’t been born an Elezen, for she might have been promised to a son of the High Houses with a face so fair.

“I can tell you aren’t terribly fond of being here, either.” Claudine felt almost exposed under her friend’s gaze. She had been a good girl and as far as she knew, there was no life other than the one the Fury had blessed upon her–at least, nothing that wouldn’t render her helpless and with less of everything. But Euphemie didn’t think the same way she or the other girls did, and that was one of the reasons why Claudine still sought her out in the first place. She suspected Euphemie tolerated her for the non-judgmental, undivided attention she offered her, which, when she thought about it, was rather rare for anyone to have.

Claudine’s heart felt heavier the longer her friend’s gaze lingered. Aside from knowing she lacked the resolve to pursue something so audacious, she knew that being left behind would leave her even more disheartened than she felt just thinking about it. 

“It isn’t so simple either, isn’t it.” Euphemie spoke it as a statement, not a question, smiling softly as she settled back on her elbows. Claudine could only laugh mirthlessly, facing the gray stone.

“It seems that nothing ever is.”


	7. clamor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _n._ a loud and confused noise, especially that of people shouting vehemently.  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look, i have no excuses for this ship, it started out crack and now we're here because my overthinking, lore-hogging mind went 'but what if it made sense'. no guarantees and no prognosis for a happy ending, though, and both sort of prefer it that way. 
> 
> takes place at the beginning of 3.0, during the small tour of ishgard after meeting the fortemps.

He stops when he notices her, ale still slithering down his throat.

In her company is a wee little thing donned in pink, the other with white hair and a youthful face that betrays his manner of speech. Lastly, an Elezen, surely the only one who has any idea where they are–presumably an escort sent by the Lord Fortemps.

But his focus is mainly on her, his observations of the others made simply as a force of habit for one so used to gauging who’s in the room, who is and isn’t an easy kill. And for once, he can take his time with this one, blown out from the blizzard like a stray Brumeling kitten. If not the wind, then surely _something’s_ made a mess of her, dusk-rose hair cast messily over her shoulders, silvery eyes searching but downcast, rosy pink lips pressed in a firm, thoughtful line. It’s not a look he remembers on her. For a brief moment, he wonders what could have made her look so _unlike_ herself–if she would return to being a force that nature could not freeze out, or if she were a limp remnant of what had once been, a piece of collateral damage from the Calamity.

He smirks and staggers from his spot beside Paulecrain, who smiles cooler in the same direction. His white-haired companion has heard pieces of the story and has an eager curiosity to see what this will lead to. Grinnaux doesn’t even need to give him a look of confirmation, because the second her eyes fall upon the two of them it’s all he needs to know.

_**This is the one.** _

_“Euphemie, Euphemie, Euphemie…”_

His voice hops in a mocking song as he corners her, faster than expected for someone under the influence. She gasps sharply and almost topples into another patron as she presses against the wall, crunching pinned sheets of named bounties and menial tasks against her back. Perfectly fitting, he thinks, because he has the best prey right here and ready, glaring up at him but also _afraid_ of him all the while and it makes him bare his teeth in a stretched grin.

“ _Where_ have you been hiding~?”

Already there’s someone trying to end this, feebly as all cowardly peacemakers do–he suspects it’s that Fortemps servant, joined by the white-haired youth and Gibrillont himself. He growls as he feels a crowd start to encircle them and barks at Paulecrain to take care of it, and doesn’t answer back when the owner most politely begs to differ. Grinnaux’s focus is on the one trapped between his fists, whose fear has slowly subsided into anger, eyebrows knit and eyes sharpened into daggers. He smirks once again because it’s the sight he remembers, proof that she’s made it out with at least part of her intact, and enough reason for him to try her all over again.

“Piss off, Bull.” She hisses in a seething whisper, and he can see the hint of clenched pearls behind her lips.

“None of this has to do with you.” 

“ _All of this_ has to do with me.” The flame in his golden eyes burns with growing amusement as his gloved thumb yanks her chin upwards, closer to him, and she yelps but glares even harder, teeth grit and nostrils flared. The tiny lass behind them cries out her name in terror, and he can assume that Paulecrain has the other two in check, though the clamor around them is growing.

He could have her sent to the Tribunal and put to trial, face her in the heat of battle himself, see whether or not all the stories about her felling primals holds any merit. He’s certainly never been one to take anyone else’s word for anything, and won’t believe a shred of it until he tests it for himself. This is the most fun he’s had in a long time, what with others falling to his axe like limp rats. 

This is the girl who had gotten away with testing him years ago, the girl with the ridiculously free smile, beaming bright at him on the snow-dusted stone of the Foundation, beaming bright enough to light her whole family on fire. 

He grins down at her, closing the distance by only a few breaths apart, whispering into her ear as soft as a lover would, only with words like venom.

“And once we’re through, I’ll collect on what the Dansereaus owe us.” 

A bruising, burning force strikes the side of his cheek hard enough to make him release his hold, leaving him cursing and brushing his fingers against the site of impact. Paulecrain’s eye is wide and he turns to Euphemie with finger pointed, loudly declaring accusations like ammunition, but it only makes her stand up straighter, smiling wickedly at her handiwork on Grinnaux’s cheek. She hopes it’s enough to last several days, long enough for the others at the Vault to notice. 

There’s whispers in the crowd, awed and fearful, held breaths and frozen gazes. He turns to them before the first snicker, swinging Stampede like a lit torch and parting the patrons just as a flurry of heavy feet surround the vicinity, and for all his efforts into inciting an incident they manage to suppress anything before something else starts. By now the alcohol has a firm grip on him and he’s hiccuping, vision blurring as he turns to look for her just as the crowd dissipates, and there’s no sign of her nor her companions, and he spits a curse knowing that they’ve slipped away.

He readies his story for the authorities as best as he can in his altered mental state. Paulecrain pats his shoulder to call it a night, and Grinnaux sends one last venomous glare towards Girbillont, who only bows his head in return, an ill attempt at hiding a remorseless grin.

He dreams of her wicked smile as he tries to sleep off the ale, sleeping on the side opposite of where the bruise is beginning to bloom.


	8. lush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _adj._ (of vegetation) growing luxuriantly.  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another thing i had to get out of my system was for euphemie's thoughts on the place she associated with warmth, freedom, and times free of cares--and how the calamity has changed it.

Once upon a time, Coerthas was green.

Snowy hills were once verdant with gently swaying grass, rivers flowing with the fish practically jumping in the height of spring, mother bears fresh out of winter’s sleep guiding their cubs in search of a hearty meal. She remembers almost falling from her uncle’s shoulders when she caught sight of a unicorn, tall and majestic in the summer sun, grazing lazily beside a sparkling river. 

Now the river is frozen over, the boats unmoving and tied rickety poles with ice-crusted rope. The thickness of the ice always seems to be in question, and so the rivers become less of a road and more of a landmark in the dull whites and greys that now define the once verdant pastures, but rendered useless when the blizzards turn into whiteouts, leaving many an unfortunate traveler stranded. 

The bears have made their dens farther, scarcer to the naked eye, and only the ones in white and willing to make prey out of anything that moves survive the change. The people of Coerthas have grown desperate and slaughtered every mother bear for their fur, their meat, their bones. 

There are no unicorns left but the ones they remember, the ones adorned on the belongings of House Fortemps, the ones drawn in books and carved into toys. The children who have never seen one only rely on what they’re told, what the others recall, as any responsible parent would never allow them to venture out in search of one themselves, not with the cold that now grips the once lush fields in its inescapable hold.

What five years has turned the Coerthas she once she called her stuns her, in both the frozen and the awe-inspiring way. What she knew it to be now remains in traces, the occasional, distant roar of a polar bear, the slippery thread in place of rivers. Whatever is green and not pine needles is kept close and hidden, meager crops or Chocobo feed. The other colors are the red of jagged glaciers and the lighter blues of icy walls, so common and so bright under the winter sun that it almost hurts her eyes. 

At least that’s one good thing about the cold–it freezes her tears before they can fall.


	9. avail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _v._ use or benefit.  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so pissed at the duskwight treatment in gridania. my heart went to pieces when i first noticed the one in front of the lancer's guild orz. 
> 
> cyril greystone, a duskwight elezen from ishgard, belongs to my friend.

In the end, she got what she wanted–freedom to go wherever she pleased, freedom to carry herself without the added burden of familial obligation–at an insurmountable price.

But she tried to continue, to cover the past with pages of her own written story. She made easy friends in the Carline Canopy, made a name for herself, and herself only. Piece by piece she learns the tricks of different trades before finding a niche in a select few, gathering plants and mending torn clothes. Those in her past life would have mocked her, pitied her for having to turn to such menial forms of labor, but she takes pride in such work. No one and nothing comes between her and her work but her own two hands, and it’s a feeling she revels in, one of the things that keeps her going.

Sometimes she’s turned away because of the man at her side. An Elezen, with slate colored skin and sharp eyes, standing several ilms above her. He is neither friend nor lover, but family–something much closer than the other two. In Ishgard Cyril was ostracized for another reason: born illegitimate, dubbed Greystone for as long as he could remember. Here they don’t need a name, and they’d rather prefer not to know it, for they have their own names for people like him. 

She tries and tries, by association and by words, honest and true–but it leads to no avail.

Her shoulders stiffen and her jaw clenches whenever they tell him to run back to his cave, when they tell him there’s no place for one of his kin. It digs into her heart and makes it bleed, big dark drops, and more often than not she never lingers in such places, which are many. 

With a deadpan expression, save for a slightly softened gaze that he’s reserved for her only, he tells her that it doesn’t bother him. His hand goes on her shoulder, always small and delicate under his hold, and reiterates that she shouldn’t have to go so hard for his sake, and she scowls at the ground knowing that she’s being reminded once again that she is the priority. As much as she’s tried to shed this master-servant relationship between them, it’s proven difficult, and oddly enough he seemed complacent in everything she chose to do. That kind of unconditional faith stirs something uncomfortable in her. Cyril Greystone is the only family she has left, and yet she worries that what he thinks of her in return is simply an obligation he has no choice but to continually tend to, no choice but to pledge the rest of his life to. 

He lets go when her head gradually lowers and her tears start to fall to the dark forest floor. But he doesn’t leave, and displaces his gaze off to the side, out of due respect. He knows pride is one of the things Euphemie has allowed herself to hold onto, and he kindles it in his own wordless way, like tending to the coals of a burning fire. 

The day after, she leaves Gridania with him in tow. 


	10. ultracrepidarian (nsfw)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _n._ a person who expresses opinions on matters outside the scope of their knowledge or expertise.  
> 
> 
> estinien/euphemie, on intimacy, nightmares, & the root of evil getting in the way of it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> by far this is probably my favorite fill for a prompt. i worried for a while on how to portray estinien, but since he was the one i imagined the most in terms of interaction with euphemie given the few times they saw one another prior to the destruction of ferndale, so being able to _finally_ get this one out of my system felt like i was on cloud nine (heehee). 
> 
> slight location spoilers for 3.0.

This isn’t the first time they’ve fucked nor is it the last, though neither would willingly admit it. One tent was left empty each night, its owner seeking refuge in another, noiseless and expectant, hungry and unrepentant. They give little time to talk before they fuck, and nothing about the way it happens is as what they were taught to believe–nothing sacred, nothing pure. 

Or so he thinks, for his sharp edges dull when she falls asleep first in his arms, weary from their earlier exertions. He catches the scent of sweat and lavender in her long, matted hair, spread against his toned chest. One arm is under her side around around her waist while the other rests over her forearm, bent over her breasts, allowing him to feel the cadence of her breathing. He stays awake because he knows her peaceful slumber hardly ever lasts, thanks to the nightmares that plague her.

To quell her screams he shoves his fingers in between her lips, between her teeth, and he grimaces not at the crushing bite but at the way she writhes, slowly and painfully, while still trapped in her vision. Sooner or later her howls retreat back into her throat, muffled and hoarse, and her eyes open, fresh tears on her lashes and cheeks as she turns around to meet his gaze for a flash of a second before hiding herself against his chest. He’s never been good at comfort as he’s left himself with not a shred of mercy as part of the burden he chose to bear, so this is the most he can do–the _best_ he can do. Letting her shed hot tears against his skin while he unconsciously runs his fingers through her hair, keeping silent with his lips pressed in a grim line. There were times when he, too, cried, times that occurred not long enough ago to forget. The reason why is always the same, and it stings to see it mirrored in Euphemie, for more nights than either of them want.

She doesn’t tell him more than he needs to know about what goes on in them. He suspects his guesses are close to the truth anyway. Once she falls back asleep his mind lingers on thoughts about her, him, and the wyrm churning and pulsing in his mind. Just holding her close like this is a risk, much less the careless times he’s indulged himself inside her during these nights spent in Dravania. While it gives her pleasure and some wayward sense of comfort, for him it’s self-destructive, taking part in a grace he doesn’t deserve. Any given moment he could lose control and let the rumbling, roaring thing take the reins, and there are times when the sex is too exhilarating that he suspects the marks he leaves on her skin and the words he breathes hot into her neck aren’t his. 

She too is taking the risk, nothing short of foolhardy for someone who was among the first to know that Nidhogg has breached the defenses of his mind, body, and soul. When he hesitates, she plants soft kisses against his jawline, gazes at him lovingly–like she actually knows anything about what goes on in his head,. She isn’t one to talk for it, and even if he could do so himself he can’t, unless everything they’ve worked for is all for naught.

But he still gives in. Maybe it’s the part of him that he’s tried to silence, the part of him that he’s tried to silence, the part of him that still hopes. Ever since she reappeared it’s made itself known, like a light as faint as a cluster of distant stars, alone in the empty, dark void he’s lived in. But unlike him, she still tries, in spite of all that’s happened. She still has the gall to smile, to laugh, to make merry, to make a home out of whoever she’s with, wherever she goes. Estinien knows how fragile that way of living is, and that’s why he’s done well to avoid it. It leaves a sour taste in his mouth seeing her try anyway, greeting complete strangers with the brightest of smiles and doing their bidding with her head held high. And it isn’t that she lacks pride, for the way she goes out of her way to correct him or never back off when challenged proves otherwise. But Euphemie has been failed in her trust before, just recently in the worst of ways, in a way that rendered her helpless, cornered, reviled. As bitter of a feeling it sets in him, her dauntless optimism only pulls him closer to her, hopelessly and, more likely than not, tragically.

If it were only him involved, he would be more than willing to accept such an ending. With the Dragonsong War brought to a conclusion and Nidhogg subdued by his spear, there’s little left for him to exist for. But now he isn’t alone in this endeavor, with which had outcomes that would take effect on a monumental scale–so it is an ending he cannot accept. If not for him, then for his allies, and all the sacrifices that will be required of them. 

And so he wrestles with the wyrm in his head, gnashed teeth and snarls exchanged for thundering roars and blood red eyes, every single day and night, for as long as he can hold it at bay, for as long as he can see, speak, and fight in his own skin, in a mind that’s still his. 

Anything if it means he can hold her in his arms just a little longer.


	11. tooth and nail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _adv._ with all one's resources or energy; fiercely.  
> 
> 
> thancred/euphemie, 2.0 post-bowl of embers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> very small snippet just to let out some feels i've had about that quest for a very long time.

She returns with the scent of ash and brimstone.

She carries with her wide-eyed stares and awed whispers, neither of which she pays any attention to. The desert sun looms high above them, and so the shadows hang heavy and dark, at her heels, underneath her eyes. 

He feels the guilt weigh heavy on his heart as she smiles with cracked lips in his direction. He stumbles on his apology and he knows it isn’t half of all he means to say, and her response is a few words soothingly whispered, few but merciful all the same. 

Her expression changes the moment she sees the bodies, cold and unmoving on the hot desert sun. The Flame tells her of their fate–a necessity to prevent anything else from coming of what transpired the night before, of what she almost lost her life for. As the terror sinks in on her features, weary yet still lovely, he turns to the side and bites his lip hard until it bleeds.

He won’t let this happen again. 


	12. extra: distraction (nsfw)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _n._ a thing that prevents someone from giving full attention to something else.  
> estinien/euphemie, people watching & then some at the firmament.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is my contribution (or setback) to the firmament event since in-game euphemie is only halfway through levelling WVR to actually join in (╥﹏╥). 
> 
> also, i wanted to see estinien with his hair up with muscles bared in a black sleeveless shirt yes.

Euphemie knows exactly what she’s doing. 

She maneuvers her way through the crowd in the Firmament, bearing a crate of fresh deliveries on her shoulder while her free hand raises an order slip, confirmed and completed. Her hair is wound up high in a ponytail, bouncing as she dodges cut timber from above and cart wheels from below, getting caught up in the contagion of energy that defines this monumental work in progress. It’s alive and bustling, moreso than Ishgard has been in over a generation–the children scurry past her and wave, careful not to get swarmed by flux of workers, and giggle to each other with wide smiles when she waves back eagerly. While she still has her share of detractors, made before or after her heroic deeds, Ishgard is slowly starting to become home again, a thought so sentimental it leaves even him smiling, but only when she isn’t looking. 

Estinien remains in his own corner near a group of carpenters, having pledged some of his own time and efforts in the woodworking. The tireless labor makes him shed his outer tunic for the black, sleeveless inner shirt, his hair tied in a messy knot. He’s taking a respite, having cut several pieces for the others to carve into or nail together, and now he stands in the shade off to the side, a mug of cider in his gloved hand. 

He can see her even then, now with a rolls of brightly-colored fabric held between her arm and side, breeches straining over her toned thighs as she steps over a cluster of pots, all the while reaching upwards to greet a draconet in a happy wave. She nearly trips when her other leg almost knocks a pot over, but a Lalafellin lad catches it just in time, crying out in apology while she does the same, bent over to talk at his level. The former Azure Dragoon frowns as her derriere is in full view, round and toned as she squats to talk to the other a little while longer, elbows propped atop her knees. It’s distracting enough to make one of the carpenters start waving in front of his own two eyes as an effort to catch his attention, something about several more planks needed before a certain hour. Estinien blinks and nods himself off of his gaze, but can’t help casting one more look, but by then she’s gone.

The next time he sees her is at the entrance, leaning against the stone wall, mouth opened in fits of laughter. Hilda stands beside her, nodding and making some crude comment about some crude idiot she’s humbled, and judging by how Euphemie takes the unsettling details in stride, he guesses it’s an everyday occurrence in the job. The two were close after realizing they had much more in common than they initially believed, and their shared struggles in both the war and the ongoing changes within the city only served to bolster their friendship. Estinien is standing closer by than before, feigning interest in the Skybuilder’s Board as he studies the two of them in his periphery, hoping his casual garb would aid in keeping him unnoticed. 

Hilda makes note of her blouse, opened a few buttons lower than what most of their kin would consider modest, the ornate beads of her rosary resting between the valley of her cleavage. Euphie snickers and raises the icon of the goddess, saying something along the lines of “it’s right where it’s supposed to be, next to my heart”. The two share a laugh before clasping their hands one last time in a farewell gesture, and right as Euphemie turns to leave, Hilda sends him a knowing wink, earning her a scowl.

It’s beginning to get agonizing watching the way her Grandmother’s rosary dangles between her breasts, the sheen of perspiration shimmering under the noonday sun. It isn’t as if he doesn’t know what they look like, what they feel like under that white blouse of hers. Euphemie must have multiples, for he distinctly remembers how it ripped in his grip during a hasty foreplay several nights ago. He remembers too, how she bent her head slightly backwards as he’d leaned in, chin between the valley of her breasts, the medallion felt like ice against his collarbone, grinning wickedly back at her before the flat of his tongue hit her skin–

Her voice cuts off his memory–a memory, not a fantasy–and his eyes grow wide when she’s standing right in front of him, head tilted to the side and blinking at the sight of a disarmed and distracted Estinien before her. Of course he tries to push it aside in an instant, tries to tell her off, but her smile only grows as her gaze stray downwards from his face, down to his groin. 

Shit.

He has a hard time keeping his hand off of his mouth in shame, hissing at her that it isn’t the time and place, but whether or not she heard is irrelevant, already resting her thighs on her calves and getting dangerously closer. The difference in height makes her crane a little higher, silver hues meeting his, the wet tip of her tongue gliding over her lips as she whispers for him to stay quiet if he can, because she wants this as much as he does. Peering down at her with his back pressed against the wall, he grimaces, both at the blood building in his member and the vision that is her having her lips around it, tongue caressing the bulb his tip, her eyes occasionally fluttering to check his expression. His nostrils flare as his head throws back against stone, letting out a guttural groan as he releases right into her throat, wincing when he feels her suck it all out.

She smiles and laps up the remainder of his fluid like it’s spilled pudding, and by then he’s had enough of holding her at a distance. He hoists her up around his waist, a yelp then a giggle leaving her mouth, cut off short by his invading tongue, long and fueled by an entire day of yearning. He fondles her ass once he gets her breeches hanging past her thighs, palming the taut muscle as his fingers work their way to yank her panties hard against her crotch. She shrieks high at the friction, and the edge of his mouth pull in a grin while he leaves bites over her neck, collarbone, back down to the familiar scent of her chest. The rosary pinches at his cheeks as he takes the medallion between his teeth, dark brown eyes peering upwards to find her own gaze to ensure she’s watching. When she looks back, her eyes are glazed over in lust, already losing the hints of bravado she’d dared earlier when she got down on her knees for him. He grins with the holy symbol still in his bite, because it’s the look he’s wanted on her since he first saw her this morning.

And he gets more of it, first prodding his length between her folds then piercing her, making her throw her head back in an open-mouthed moan out of sheer ecstasy. She begs and whimpers like a cat in frantic heat as he thrusts harder, faster inside her, grunting and groaning like a wild boar. He doesn’t know how long they’ve been here, or if anyone’s looking for either of them, but he doesn’t care. She’s a thorn that’s always nagged at his side, since the day he first met her, and now that she’s actually here, in the flesh, and very much alive he doesn’t plan on letting her off so easy, on some wicked reminder that he too, is alive all because of her.

She curls up around him when she finishes, and he has to hold her lest she falls to a heap at his feet. They both catch their breath, forehead against forehead, the scent of sex heady in the air, and when she meets his gaze she laughs, faint and breathy. 

“I’m glad it worked.”

It takes him a minute to process the meaning behind her words, before he sighs loud and defeated, too weary to take vengeance on her act of manipulation. Maybe this was her own revenge for him ruining that blouse. He rolls his eyes and lets the back of his head roll to the side against the stone wall, as the side of her cheek lands to rest on his chest. 

“Fucking gaelkitten.” 

“I love you too.”


	13. part

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _n._ some but not all of something.  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> odile de bonfaurt is my ishgardian duskwight oc.

Odile is used to living with an arm’s reach of many things–of her family, of her countrymen, of her goddess. And that be why she holds few things close to her, because something in her nags that it’s always a bad idea–all things come to an end, whether good or bad, and if it becomes too much of the former then she may come to regret losing it.

Loss surrounds everyone in the city, young and old, rich and poor. No one wants to call it for what it is–veiled in honorable sacrifice or buried in weak faith–there always has to be a reason. Odile was foolish enough to think that having something taken away had a purpose, perhaps not in the same fanaticism as others did, but was content knowing that such things didn’t happen out of nowhere.

It was safer to believe, safer to have faith.

But now she’s sitting in her bed at some ungodly hour, the curtains drawn and the candle on the nightstand long-snuffed out. Her eyes are a dark red and her throat feels hoarse, and when she drinks from her cup of water she only winds up crying again. She doesn’t have the strength to lie down and get into the sheets, as she’s felt frozen for the several hours she’d spent crying in her room since finishing supper. 

Her family deemed it a blessing that she hadn’t seen her in months prior to the accusation. The trial was to be held that evening, and her family would take no part in spectating. Supper was an exchange of dull platitudes, of insincere pity. And because Odile knew she could not compromise by saying her part on the matter, she remained silent, and kept her eyes downcast as they buried her best friend several feet under.

_The goddess gives and takes away._

Her mother had pressed the medallion of their heirloom rosary into her palm, goading her to pray for their absolution. With her amber gaze sixty-summers full of blind faith, Odile allowed herself to feel pity for the woman rather than the true, raw anger she had and still nursed. She doesn’t think she’ll take her advice tonight, or tomorrow.

Maybe she never will.


	14. ache

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _v._ suffer from a continuous dull pain.  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thancred was more fun than expected to write. he has such a way with words, and most of the time euphie can't take them without saying a few of her own (°◡°♡).

“I was thinking…”

Her fingers spread and venture into the exposed skin of his shirt as she bends her head downwards so their noses touch, his smile ever growing against her own.

“That you could help me with something.” 

“Name it.”

The way he breathes the words after her own sends her heart fluttering, and in the spur of confidence built for herself she sighs a laugh, cool and sweet against his lips. Euphemie had heard the gaudy promises of minstrels and the fickle proclamations of many an ardent admirer, which she consumed like a sugary treat and forgot about just as quickly.

Tonight those two words are different. Tonight she lets it sit on her tongue until it melts to nothing, lets it sit so the sweetness lingers until she can’t remember, and even after that. The woman she knew herself to be grew dangerously close to being the girl she thought she couldn’t be, the girl who believed she could have everything and anything. But as they ventured deeper and deeper into the rose-velvet of the kiss, Euphemie began to believe that surrender wasn’t so bitter after all. 

“You still haven’t told me about that _something,_ love.” He chuckles with his arms around her and his fingers caught in her hair. They’re both flushed and warm, hearts aflutter and gazes locked and yearning. The way he wets his newly parted lips with his tongue makes her giggle, wishfully hoping that she tastes just as good as he does, since she did indulge in the same wine as he did earlier that evening. 

“Iwas _thinking,_ ” She bobs her head and tilts it to the side, gaze critical and sharp as if delivering a formal report to a commanding officer. Thancred knows how she has her fun with play acting, since she only ever did so to lighten a tense situation, or to make a light one even lighter. He also knows when she pretends for the necessity, pretends with a hard pressed smile and squared shoulders, pretends with reassuring words for everyone but herself. Those are the times she hides, the times he’s earned himself into taking her into his arms and holding her and her troubles, her and her aches–for they are plenty and still growing by the minute.

The hard line of her tender mouth persists for a few more seconds while she sizes him up, until her eyes become bright once more, until her smile shows the crease of her dimples.

“…about how so _swiftly_ you make me forget.” He bursts into a laugh as her forefinger prods against his chest.

“Then, allow me to make it up to you.” 

“Oh no. My request was going to be very important, you see.” She partly withdraws from his hold to kneel between his legs, fingers threading into the thick curtain of her hair, delicate like dawn sunlight on a river for someone who’s supposed to be sulking.

“All the more reason for me to make this worthy enough of an apology.” He dares to brush the back of his hand against the side of her cheek, satisfied at the subtle dust of pink that comes along with it as she tries to look away. To him Euphemie looked picture perfect in any light, in any expression she chose to wear–but because her side profile was the first he’d borne witness to, standing in the early evening of the Thanalan sky with a thousand stars overhead, it was the one he’d grown endeared to. Only second to when she was looking directly at him. 

“Will you find it in you to allow this _poor and penitent_ soul another chance?” It was only half-true the way he described himself so lowly, for being this close to her, to something so divine feels like a mercy. When Euphemie turns to look at him her mouth is twisted in an unimpressed frown, but by the way her silvery hues yield into his Thancred knows he’s on the verge of winning.

“You sound like an Ishgardian.”

He hums a chuckle behind a softer, warmer smile, the hand at her back drawing her closer once more. 

“On the contrary, I pray to someone else.” 

“Blasphemy.” She murmurs, head tucked under his chin, cheek pressed against his collarbone.   
  
“I tell you, she’s much more fire than ice. Leaves everlasting burns on the flesh of her enemies. Anyone who’s been blessed with the chance of having an audience remembers her light, like she keeps the whole world warm in her wake…” 

Euphemie’s heart thrums wild in his sentimental patter, but she can only roll her eyes while he maneuvers his legs for the sake of their shared comfort in the sheets.

“’Tis a shame.” He sighs, dramatic and longing.

“If only she knew of a certain lost soul’s adoration.” 

“She knows and she’s tired of listening to his tireless self-pity.” Now her arms go around his, chin atop his chest.

“She’s no goddess, just another soul as lost as his.” 


	15. lucubration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _n._ study; meditation.  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> donatien de dansereau is my oc & euphemie's baby brother : , )

Philippe Herve Donatien de Dansereau was born seven years her junior, a boy of some eight sweet summers. He had hair the same shade as her own, but in soft, smooth tufts just over his pink-tipped ears. His birth was long awaited and lavishly celebrated–the first of many indulgences he’d been entitled to, as the treasured heir.

But the expectations their elders had gathered for months while he grew in their mother’s womb fell short when he began to show signs of his fragile health, and so the dreams of him becoming an honored knight were out of the question, especially at his mother’s behest. And of everyone in the family Donatien took the news best, swinging his legs off the chair at dinnertime and retiring to his room and the books piled high on the nightstand beside his bed. 

There was talk of having him enrolled in the Scholasticate, where his penchant for learning could be cultivated into a different kind of honor, but honor enough to land their surname into even better graces. The Baron grew impatient by the day as his wife and mother quarreled to keep the boy from heading away too soon, and so it became a subject of contention at their meals, which was all the more reason for the center of attention to sweep his plate clean as soon as possible.

When Euphemie found herself with nothing better to do, she always paid her brother a visit. Her parents and their servants are proper enough to announce themselves before opening the door, but there was an unspoken comfort in how she simply opened the door wordlessly, her other arm bent behind her and cradling a bundle of stolen tarts from the kitchen. The scent alone as she unraveled it was enough to draw his attention, with a starry shine in his silver eyes. 

During late nights he found himself sneaking into his sister’s bedroom, his bedtime chemise layered by a warmer robe, and he’d crept into her sheets, seeking out a warmth he could find nowhere else. He would beam wide for her in the dark of her bedroom, small arms wrapped around a book heavy enough to dent her mattress over to one side, and she would always relent, not because he’s the heir but because he’s her baby brother.

Sometimes, while she’s half-asleep with the faint candlelight in the corner of her vision, she can hear him whisper syllables, repeated and practiced until they become words. They’re long words, boring words–but to him they never are. Occasionally she’d give up trying to sleep and prop herself up on her elbows, her flowing mane wild and unkempt across her shoulders rendered bare from her loose nightgown, a sight her mother would never allow beyond the bedroom door. But Euphemie knows her brother doesn’t care, despite him knowing the deeper reasons behind it–he’s mature for his age, more mature than she was.

“…How do you say it again?” She murmurs, tilting the side of her head to scratch an itch beneath her curtain of hair.

“Luh–cub–”

“Lew, sister. It rhymes with dew.” He says at a matter of factly, startlingly clear for being up at such an ungodly hour. He’s sitting cross-legged with the opened book on his lap, his thick robe too warm against her legs, and she has to slide them to the side. 

“Lewk–you–bration.” 

“And what does it mean.” She stretches an extended arm to the drawer of her nightstand, hand fumbling at the contents before grasping the helm of a brush.

“Study. Or an old piece of writing.” He leans into the touch of soft bristles against his head.

“Why don’t they just write study. Save us the trouble.” She snorts, brushing his hair while leaning on her side. There’s something idyllic in moments as secret as this, an odd form of rebellion in the name of extra warmth.

“I think each carries its own feeling. Like when Audrey makes tart, but puts different things on the inside.” He pipes thoughtfully, small fingers parting the pages once more. His reply is too soft and sincere for something so sarcastic, and it makes her smile.

“You do have a point there.” She lets the bristles tickle the back of his neck hidden snug under the collar of his robe, earning a peal of laughter. She’s heard him chuckle, and seen him smile, but he only ever laughs this loudly, this freely, when she’s there with him.

“What do you think of us going to Coerthas?” She words it quietly, carefully. She’s heard more than enough of everyone else’s opinion, but she hasn’t heard him voice his own, not counting the times he’d reassured their mother.

“I’m excited.” He keeps his smile, bright and dimpled just like hers, now looking directly at her with the opened book left forgotten atop his legs.

“I want to see all the snow.” 

“You don’t tire of seeing it here?” 

“That merchant Father spoke to says it’s different there. No buildings as tall as here for malms on end. All just white, even the rivers.” The way her brother describes something he hasn’t seen is endearing. And yet she can’t help but be selfish as he loses himself in what he knows through another’s eyes, selfish and comparing it with what she knew of it to be. It’s fair to say that neither of them know what the countryside of here and now looks like, and in that they can both be, at most, pleasantly surprised. There still may be wide open spaces, and Euphemie can presume that there will be less of sharing, more of claiming the good parts. Fifteen years of eagerly waiting to break free from the city walls and relishing in the wind with the tall grasses soft against her legs and Euphemie never once felt that the wide expanse of land could be easily divided, like a pie on a platter. But it was still done, and even more stubbornly so after the calamity, with the landed lords scrambling after the favored pieces as scavenging mice. 

“…and the karakuls! I want to see them.” Donatien’s cheeks are warm just thinking of the fluffy round creatures that skittered and bleated, having only encountered a few on a visit to a relative. Embarrassing for the son of a family who has them by the hundreds. 

“Well. I’m certain you’ll fit right in.” Euphemie smirks and dances her fingers in a tickle against the fabric of his nightshirt, sending him into a fit of laughter, but she stops short to keep the others from waking, casting a cautionary glare over her shoulder. He, too, crawls back on his knees and ducks under the sheets, eyeing the doorway, but when no one comes the two of them sigh in relief.

“I think you’ll like it in Coerthas.” She concludes with her own verdict, blowing the candlelight dead and pulling the duvet over the heads. Donatien’s smile opens in a yawn as he settles in with the book against his bare feet.

“I think I will too.”


	16. fade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _v._ (1) lose or cause to lose color or brightness. (2) gradually grow faint and disappear.
> 
> meteor!wol/euphemie. slight au where euphemie is not the warrior of light, but rather a dragoon in the service of ishgard due to her family’s loss of land and title.
> 
> on saying goodbye and leaving some things left unsaid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> every time i see a dang trailer with his face all over the screen i just want to cherish and protect him. i imagine what he has going on with euphemie in this au is similar to the whole hercules & meg vibe, which is slightly coincidental since i imagine meg's japanese singing seiyuu, shizuka kudo, fits euphemie to a T ( ´ ▽ ` ). it has the flirty and velvety, but also an easygoing charm to it.
> 
> takes place post-heavensward.

“You have no idea how much I loathed this one.” His eyes are on her back but he can see her roll her eyes as she hoists something old and yellowed up from the chest.

When she spreads it he can recognize the detailed etchings and intricate patterns of white lace, layered by some sort of heavier fabric that kept it from being completely transparent. 

“To think it was here all this time…” He muses with a nod. While he’s no stranger to hearing thoughts that aren’t his own, to being in places he shouldn’t belong, Euphemie never once made him feel excluded. It seemed she had that effect on everyone, and in her sly jokes, dimpled smiles and gentle reassurances he felt needed, wanted. It was the least of what he could expect since being granted solace in Ishgard, but past the chilly initial reception he had proven himself worthy of a name within the city walls, while the rest of the realm was still tentative on claiming him once again as their Warrior of Light.

“It certainly wouldn’t have been my first pick even if I’d known what would happen beforehand,” She shrugged with the dress folded around her forearm, a slip of dusky rose sliding past her shoulders and onto her chest.

“I’m more practical than that.” She gives him a smile, bitter and sweet, like an exhale after remembering a bad memory, and he smiles back.

“…Can I ask you something?” She pivots a step closer, relaxing her arms with the edge of her faded lace dress hover right above her boots.

He nods.

“Your Echo. Have you…ever seen anything with me?” Euphemie stops after another slow step closer, with an expectant gaze that was more curious than anything else. When he looks down and hesitates, she retreats her stare off to the side, feeling a tinge of remorse for bringing back what might have been something less than flattering, even if it could’ve been a memory of her own.

“I mean–you don’t have to tell me exactly what it was you saw, but…” 

“I didn’t see anything.” A relief to them both, and her shoulders sag with a laugh that barely covers a sigh. She’s had more than enough of her own share of troubles, and the last thing he needs is another addition to the weight of the world he has on his shoulders. Euphemie was almost giddy at the idea that she was among the few who wouldn’t be a burden by memory–only by association. And that second part was to be remedied by him leaving the city in short time, leaving her to pick up the pieces with the rest of her countrymen, for both the past and the future.

“When you’re out there…good luck.” She nods, rolling the dress tighter between her arm and chest. He nods in return again, giving her a smile with less shine than her own, but just as warm–maybe he’s learned from the best. The best in Ishgard, anyway. Or so Hilda can attest.

“Thank you…for everything,” He adds, making her blink in quiet surprise.

“though Ser Alberic and Heustienne did much to help pave the way for my training, I woudn’t’ve gotten anywhere had you not been there–” His efforts at a compliment were always sparse, awkward. But endearing nonetheless, and an annoying tug at her heartstrings grows all the more aggravating as he continues.

“–I don’t think I would’ve stood a chance against Nidhogg without your aid.” The wyrm’s name makes her chuckle, a laugh too lighthearted for a fight that held such monumental implications had he not bested him.

“Aid? By helping you with learning how to land…”

She dares a few steps closer, stopping once she’s half an arm’s reach away.

“…or by telling you about Coalline.” Despite his growing embarrassment at how close she is he laughs, gentle and lost in a soft breath.

“Both. Though I think we can both agree on not letting Estinien know.” 

“That’s more on my end. You’re leaving, so you can tell whoever you want that the Azure Dragoon cried over a lost karakul.” She nudges him playfully in the shoulder with a wink, and he grins.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” 

“Don’t bother, I know you’re too nice for that.” She waves it off with one hand as she returns to the chest with the messily folded dress, placing it right back where she found it, right back where it belongs.

“What are you going to do with this place?” His hand rests on the entrance of the room she used to call her own, and though the place has seen better days with less dust and cobwebs, all of the city is due for reconstruction, rebuilding, renewal.

“I thought of having a word with the clergy–the good ones, mind you–and having it turned into an orphanage. Think of how happy they’ll be to have a home closer to the Jeweled Crozier!” She beams wide at the thought of the little ones she’d encountered, whose eyes shone like the light of ice sprites when she’d uncovered the candy within her gauntlets. 

“Odile said she would help too, and Hilda–since we’ve done our share of the good, the chances of those with the right ties to the right people willing to give us their aid must be higher than ever. Better to strike while the iron’s hot, as they say?” His smile is warm and wide as he nods in agreement. 

“And you’d better stop by when you visit. I can already feel that they’ll be talking for you months on end–years, even.” The lid of the chest shuts with her twisting the lock to a resounding click.

“You have my word.” 

Her steps feel heavier as she approaches him again, with him pivoting to the side lest she seeks to leave first. The old key rolls uncomfortably between her fingers as she faces him at the foot of the door, lips pressed and twisting in the search for the right words–or at least, the ones she won’t regret. It’s the final moment for a while they’ll have with one another, and they’ve both let too much slip past their fingers to allow for another regret.

Instead, her gaze creeps up the folds of his shirt, the tip of his chin, before settling on his still downcast gaze, and she realizes he’s in the same predicament as herself.

She meant to say his name, plain and simple, but it comes off as more of a question, a plea for attention.

“…Thank you. For everything.” Her chin bobs with the weight of each word, with the thud of her heart. 

He smiles, less wide than before with a more muted shine–but the warmth never diminishes, never fades. 

“And to you as well…Euphemie.” 

She leaves first simply because it’s easier than to watch him do it himself.


	17. panglossian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _adj._ characterized by or given to extreme optimism, especially in the face of unrelieved hardship or adversity.
> 
> estinien/euphemie, realm of thoughts, yearning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had to stop myself short here because i wanted to write more with alberic and euphemie with a little of estinien to the side. euphemie and her own father weren't very close, so i imagine alberic's the closest thing she has to one--the fact that both she and est have lost their families, albeit to very different forces, and reacted to it in _very_ different ways must be quite the sight to witness. but again, that's for another time ╰(*´︶`*).

When all else fails, kindness doesn’t. Except when it does.

Euphemie wasn’t too soft to think that the world was your own simply by changing one’s attitude towards it. There were times she, the Warrior of Light, felt drained by her own shine, parched by her own heat. Times where she seemed to give hope and courage to everyone but herself. Never had she spoken of this problem, this paradox to anyone, because she feared that it would dim the nature of her position--and call to question her ability to carry it.

There was something that always existed in her that sought to be different. That sought to be better. As far as she could tell, being caught up in the weight of her past wasn’t the better she wanted to be. And yet there were more times than ever where her resolve teetered on the brink of collapse, the trickle of eroded rock that precipitated a mighty avalanche. Everyone knows that no one--not the mightiest warrior, or the most venerated king--was unsusceptible to loss. Yet it seemed that no one was willing to recognize that they could wear it on their own faces, that the ones whom they held in such high regard were being bereft of the very same humanity that they were bound to protect.

She never liked thinking it through this far. She knew that despite all the giving, loving, and hoping she too suffered from everything that had happened to her. And her only remedy to it was not through some sort of closure, but rather by doing more of what she had already been doing, going round and round in a vicious, sunlit cycle. In her heart of hearts she knew something was due to breaking, to shattering--but her so-called better self couldn’t find nor trust another to pick up the pieces without getting cut.

It’s the one with the sharpest gaze that leaves her most vulnerable, the one who looks at her in a way that no one else did. It would be daft to call it for mere interest, concern, or even love--for while he had not been present in her tribulations, he understood her more than she wanted to admit. There was the obvious irony of it being the one who’d known her longest, who’d seen her young, foolhardy, and whimsically carefree--the Euphemie of back then, the girl who had not a worry on her tiny shoulders, who chased plump karakuls down green hills and startled the fish into leaping from the river--and so it was also he who pursued her by the malm, on steep cliffs and spindle-top spires, all for the purpose of providing a silent hand of support.

Euphemie was only aggravated by how he felt it being his right to appear and disappear out of her life like a ghost, for she sees them plenty at ungodly hours, half-asleep in bed. It annoyed her that he sought a choose a path not leading to an inevitable end, all in the name of a vengeance that must keep him burning as decayed wood for the fire of a hearth. How she wanted so desperately for him to stay alive, stay breathing, stay beside her, but in their exchanges in the early days of her dragoon training he always stood several yalms away. 

Alberic must have caught onto the way his wayward pupil lit sparks in her eyes, how her gaze lingered whenever he turned to leave, at his fading silhouette in the falling snow. Impossible for him to _not_ have suspected anything between them from their very first meeting at the Observatorium, the way gooseflesh trickled down the back of her neck, down the length of her arms when she heard his name spoken for the first time in years. Come to think of it, Alberic must have kept her around as a protege with the hopes of somehow getting through to him, by means of another who knew him enough to maintain a proper conversation. Of course, Estinien prevented that from happening too soon with how he made his leave swiftly and silently.

And yet she continued the chase, the light in her eyes shimmering bright like a thousand stars awakened from their slumber behind an overcast sky, palms toughened and holding fast to her halberd. She kept going for him, and for her, and for everyone else--but this time, her motivation was a little more selfish than usual, and that’s why it kept her up at night, why his face was in her dreams more than ever, why she began rising earlier even than Alberic in the morning. 

Because being hopeful is the most dangerous, most beautiful thing to be.


	18. where the heart is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _proverb._ the place of your greatest affection will always be your home, regardless of wherever you are.  
> 
> 
> estinien/euphemie, post-heavensward (3.0), on getting a place of her own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i tried writing this last night but wound up passing out and finishing the rest today ( ˙▿˙ ). again i had to cut it short for the sake of sticking with the prompt, but at least they got to some of it, right?

“One would think you would find a place elsewhere, with all that’s transpired.” 

“Well, I’ve many friends here now–old and new ones.” She shrugs. Ishgard was home again, plain and simple. Not everyone would share the same sentiment towards all that she’d done for them, but the smiling eyes and warm words of gratitude far outnumbered her naysayers, and for Euphemie that was more than she could ever imagine, more than could ever hope for. 

“I just believe anyone should have a place they can feel safe in.” She wraps her arms around him, eyes bearing a steely resolve. Yet he recognized the hesitation in her words–the question of whether or not she herself deserved it, the permanence of a place to call home. Not that he had the right to a rebuttal, as he’d forgone that idea for local inns and camping. For someone who stayed clear of crowds and unneeded conversation, it was the more favorable option–but of course Euphemie gravitated towards people, and in turn people enjoyed being around her.

He was certain that there would be a crowd of well wishers in front of her apartment once she fully moved in, rendering it impossible for him to enter without Tataru inciting some sort of madness. Granted, it was likely the Lalafellin lass had already spread all sorts of gossip by way of the Forgotten Knight, regarding the nature of their relationship–and by some stroke of luck, Estinien had yet to see any sign of it, though it was due any time soon. Once again, his penchant for slipping in and out of the city was to his advantage. 

“And yes, part of that is a state of mind, too–but it’s still different when it’s something you can touch.” He hummed, not breaking their gaze, one hand steady around her waist while her legs stayed hooked around his torso. Though he was built at the legs, the arms, the chest–Estinien sported an oddly delicate waist, all the more for her to display the length of her legs when she clung to him in these stolen moments. Said moments had been fought for by fire and blood, stone and steel–and they would do well to treasure the time they could have in one another’s presence, without the intervention of anyone or anything else. 

“Aggressively sentimental as ever.” His palm slid down the side of her waist, downwards and around her toned behind, not exactly fondling but enough of a touch to make her smirk. In the past he hadn’t been as patient, and their foreplay had been so fast that Euphemie could barely blink before he was inside her. Now their preambles felt more drawn out, allowing her more time to savor everything he was, everything he meant to her. And surely good things came to those who wait, for he was always transfixed while feasting on her from down below, while her hips writhing against the need to keep steady for him. She wonders if he’s thinking of a similar, familiar scenario–for the look in his eyes is dark and glossed, expectant for what was to come.

“I have more than enough for the two of us.” She tilts her head playfully to the side, a lock of dusk rose falling on the groove of her exposed collarbone.

“And besides. It allots us more privacy for those cold nights.” Estinien felt himself soothed by the touch of her fingertips on the angle of his cheek, like the tingle of a first morning snow, delicate and loving. Euphemie was far from him in that aspect, he who dragged reddened marks along the white of her neck, who dug bruises into the meat of her thighs. While she left home with traces of her former life, which lit a warmth in her heart that she kept enkindled even in the darkest, deepest pitfalls she’d come upon, he had nothing but the clothes on his back, the soot in his nails. He only ever felt filthy when it came to active displays of emotion–ironic that he initially believed it to be an easier way of communication than with the words that often left him cold and bitter, devoid of the warmth she was full of. 

“Since when are the nights here otherwise.” He hoists herself upwards a bit, and she leans her hips closer in by a few ilms, sowing the first seed of aggravating friction.

“Since you decided to share my bed.” Nose to nose and breath intermingled, he leans his head closer to kiss her, strong and true, and before long her fingers were in his hair. 

Much to his displeasure, he felt a nagging, tugging pain on his scalp, and he tore his lips away from her, more than annoyed by the fact that she’d decided to un-tangle the knots in his fine, silvery mane mid-kiss.

“Euphemie.” She giggles in response to his low growl, letting the freed strands of silver fall past her fingers. By the rosy hue of her cheeks and the listless shine in her eyes he could tell she was still very much under the spell of their kiss, of the physical intimacy they’d built up until this petty distraction.

“If only you’d combed.” 

He slams his weight onto her own, pinning her to the wall with arms tense with raw, untapped power. He was in no mood for games. Especially after she’d led him up to this point, pent-up and hungry, and he could care less if he’d come fresh from the battlefield, covered in soot and blood.

“If only you’d kept the pace.” He whispers close to her ear, mouth wide with a grin as he felt her breasts heaving harder against his chest.

“You don’t know what you’ve started, gaelkitten.”


	19. argy-bargy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _n._ noisy quarreling or wrangling.  
> set during 2.0--"In the Eyes of Gods and Men”, right before francel’s trial.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the moment brigie said that line i knew i was gonna write euphemie's reaction to it eventually. also this is my first time writing from alphie's pov (ish). i never thought i could do it!

Euphemie turned pale while facing the Lady Inquisitor on the staircase corner, and her mouth twisted at the corners, threatening to break words too dangerous to allow slip from her tongue. Alphinaud keep a distant yet close enough vigil, watching with relief as she descended from the steps, only to be greeted with eyes so cold they burned. 

Often times she’d greeted him with something soft, sly, and with a smile, but this was something different. It had been very different ever since the boy lordling in Skyfire Locks had been accused of heresy, the way her eyes flared with fear and her playful gait turned sharply prompt. Surely this wasn’t her first time aiding someone whose life was at stake, and yet she seemed to act out with a fervor he had never witnessed before. Granted, they had only been acquaintances for a relatively short period of time. 

“I assume she said nothing of value?” In spite of the obvious he remains confident, due in part to his irritation with this damned Coerthan cold, fists balled in his elbows for warmth. 

“…She did not.” She breathed, terse and frigid, defeated. For a brief moment it looked like she was tempted to look over her shoulder, back at the coldhearted Inquisitor, but she bites her lip hard and faced the snow-dusted stone at their feet instead. It was hard to believe that someone seemingly so fearless and unsparing in humor could be bogged down by something religious in nature. But he was starting to assume that Euphemie had some history with faith; if not her own, than of others. 

For in the relatively short time he’d gotten to know her, the young Elezen had come to recognize the tumultuous nature that drove her, amiable yet competitive, soft but wild. On the topic of diplomacy, she’d told him herself once, sheepishly smiling with lance against her shoulder, that she much rather preferred to fight than talk over tea. And so his fears regarding her likeness to his sister were proven true. But there were some differences, as Euphemie was more willing to make merry and linger on purely social motivation, or that when she smiled and froze out everyone in the room whilst speaking to someone, exerted a special sort of charm that left many of the opposite sex breathless, vulnerable and disarmed. 

Euphemie swallowed and shook her head, kicking the shackles of fear off her ankles and turning to face the gate.

“We should go.” 

He couldn’t even nod in agreement before she was off on her heels, in a mad run that left a couple of knights staring in question.

Alphinaud sighed and set off after her, almost regretting how he’d begun to enjoy being without his sister by his side. 


	20. shuffle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _n._ a shuffling movement, walk, or sound.  
> 
> 
> lore exploration of sorts. euphemie and her brother donatien on a night in their country manor, post-calamity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> : )

A shuffle of feet against fresh snow turned her gaze to the entryway of the stable, where her younger brother stood, lantern in hand, eyes wide with surprise.

“Did you find any yetis?”

The boy’s smile in return is a tightly-pressed one, and she swears his throat bobbed in a swallow. 

“…N-no, just a falcon or two.”

“Oh, i would hope neither were father’s.” She turns back to the steed with a bitter chuckle. the man had lost enough.

“I don’t think they were.” Donatien casts a look over his shoulder. 

“You should best head to bed before Audrey or Mother find out where you’ve gone.” After giving the chocobo one last pat, she turned to look at him, her hands clutching the insides of her heavy cloak for warmth at this ungodly hour.

He takes a step back, nodding with a careful, almost frightened gaze towards his dear sister. It’s so unusual she stops dead at the cross of the stable’s entry and the snow-covered yard. when he sees the confusion on her face he bites his lip hard and turns to the ground.

“…Sorry. I almost–i almost lost my way.” His words are fast in the cold air and he almost stumbles, clear signs of a lie. she frowns but sighs.  
  
“I told you not to go too far–”

“I’m sorry.” 

His voice shakes, and she blinks, mouth still opened and ready to demand much else of him, but he’s too swift on his heel and turns.

“I–i’m going to bed. goodnight, sister–”

He darts off back into their country manor, crunching small footsteps into the expanse of white, all the while clutching at the scales of his forearm.


	21. beam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _v._ (of a light or light source) shine brightly.  
> 
> 
> realm of thoughts and musings for estinien and euphemie. set post-dragonsong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this format switches from realm of thought to present as shown by parentheses, i wanted to try it out because i'm learning to ease myself into dialogue. edited a little from the original fill on tumblr because i wound up adding to the last portion so i'm saving that for something else.

Whenever he mentions the goddess or the church she cast her eyes upwards and down in exasperation, rolling her shoulders and tilting her head in a sign of clear disrespect to any fervent follower. But Estinien knows she is far from a true non-believer; he’d caught her at her weakest, in which she yielded herself to something higher, if not the fury--bent and shivering in a lone, snow-dusted corner, the intricate beads of the Dansereau’s rosary stretched from her neck, the medallion of the goddess held fast between her palms like a lifeline. Never once did he even consider telling her, knowing she preferred it forgotten. 

He isn’t one for prayer either. The most he’s done in these past days is pay his respects to a grave, one occupied and the other empty, a bouquet of white lilies in hand. It was needless to say that the war’s end came with both doubt and hope in the souls of many, now simultaneously blessed and cursed with the gift of the truth. It’s a revelation, a revolution, but he’s pledged to see it through, with his old friend the revered lord commander spearheading the new era. The stark divide between black and white that defined Ishgard for thousands of years were coming to a collision point, blending into a grey, a silver in the newly-freed sky. 

How fitting it was that Euphemie had that silver in her eyes all along, shining and sparkling like sunbeams on flowing water newly broken from its ice. With her, the world spins into motion, laughing and dancing and crying, blending into a spectrum of colors he feels like he hasn’t seen in years, with cheeks dimpled and rosy and waves of hair that caught sunlight in-between strands. Sometimes she notices how he relishes her warmth wordlessly, while they’re closer than ever beneath bedsheets, and she laughs and tells him to thank the shroud for thawing her out ever since she left.

(“And what keeps you coming back to the cold?” He catches her hand between his scar-lined fingers and brings it to his lips, in a wry, crooked grin.)

(She pouts her lips and pretends that the color on her cheeks doesn’t burn: “It’s not like I wanted it in the first place. Rather, something trapped me here.”)

(He continues to trace the pads of her finger with the curve of his lips: "I daresay you’re masochist for enjoying your imprisonment.”)

(She scoffs and tries to wring her hand away from his, but his tongue tickles and winds up stifling on a giggle: “As is my captor, if I've made a sadist out of him yet.”)

(The corner of his mouth bends in a deeper smirk as he pushes forward on his elbows, nose to nose and breath against hers: “What a twisted pair we make.”)

(She breathes with a smirk in return, before silencing him with a kiss: “I wouldn’t have it any other way”.)

No wyrm lurches in the dark corners of his mind, no threat lingers over him and what he loves like a looming, foreboding shadow.

Yet.

And he takes the momentary pause, the short stalemate between one war to the next, for his own. For her. Finally nothing comes between them, no snow-swept mountains, no deep green shroud, no harbinger of doom and no perpetrator of political intrigue. Estinien and Euphemie know too well--one of the few promises they can make--that surely something greater will wedge them apart, perhaps in body, but never in spirit, and surely never in heart. These days spent bickering under the dust of rebuilt stone, these nights spent with bent limbs and tousled sheets, touches rough and tender, words hissed and whispered--fleeting and unpromised. 

He expected to be the one left lingering in the shadow, watching from a corner, waiting for her companion or companions to leave her be all to himself once again. Sometimes a tinge of irritation crosses him like a knife edge drawn across bark, for he alone out of the masses who flocked to her knew her before this all happened, when she was just Euphemie. 

No heretic, no savior, no warrior of light. 

It's a futile way of thinking, for even those days before their period of separation were short and stilted by the difference in their social classes--a noble’s daughter and a shepherd’s boy. Strange how a war could bridge the gap between them, now two dragoons, two Ishgardians working to save their homeland. After years spent under the weight and pressure of accursed guilt, they had found to have much more in common than they’d believed. Of course it didn't start that way. The woman called Lady Iceheart, but who they’ve come to remember as Ysayle, made note of the conflict, a shared conflict, that was evident even while at Dravania. How he mocked Euphemie for taking her side, and how Euphemie lashed out at him with claims of his constant cynicism. Neither one of them was willing to admit it then, that amidst all their differences in opinion they would both fight for a common cause, a cause that cost them plenty. 

But he took her off guard by saying that they won’t let them take more than they already have; that they’ll be six feet under the cold, cold ground under his greaves, far from Aymeric and Alphinaud and her, cold and dead to the world, a vow flipped over on its head when the wyrm overtook him that night in Azys Lla.

It was Euphemie doing the saving, salvaging what was left of him in the thundering storm of Nidhogg’s possession. hands that held fast and swift to the dance of her halberd were now clutched around his own, longingly, lovingly, with the same heat and fervor pulsing in the palms as had been in battle. Astounding she was, for being the same person then and the same person now, how all this could exist in the same being, in the same woman whom he’d grown to love in the entirety of her soul. 


	22. irenic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _adj._ meaning or aimed at peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ♫ run before the inquisition comes ♫

Hortense has never thought of herself as a fighter.

She had been blissfully content being idle, the only form of busy being her knitwork and the rush to acquire the newest baubles at the crozier before any of her peers. the closest she got to any action was on a balcony high above the scene of a tournament, casting bets with her sisters and nibbling on candies from a pouch. Hortense always claimed she detested any sort of violence but Euphemie always saw right through her, saying that she enjoyed watching, but not partaking in it. 

(”but that goes for most of us,”--she’d turn her gaze upon the myriad of spectators and their unrestrained praises--”it’s sort of morbid, but all in good fun. most of the time.”)

Now in Dravania, the former noble could evade it no longer. even the skirmishes her sister had described as ‘good fun’ ended on the mud-thick ground, fists and bruises and broken-toothed grins. everything was up close and personal--the way they liked it, the way it should be. Hortense had initially begged to differ, and thus her first days in Tailfeather had her sticking out less like a sore thumb and more like a spritely plume in the midst of thick down. Stolen glances filled with judgment noted her every hesitation, further affirming how, unlike her sister, it seemed that this one had no idea where she was and what she was doing. The third daughter of House Dansereau had no intention of learning the ways of the wilds, even if their move to the country manor had brought her too close for comfort with Chocobo dung in the stables. given the situation and the urgency of their departure, both of them had reason to be forgiven for being so ill-prepared upon their arrival. 

Apolline’s hushed lecture had begun in the dark morning hours while they were still at the manor, hurriedly collecting what belongings they couldn’t go without. Much of Hortense’s beloved dresses were left behind for breeches and a single pair of boots, which she had hastily tied and almost tripped with while scampering down the stairs. Her jewelry was to be their means of acquiring anything needed, and whatever hope she had of being able to keep something of her old life was dashed the instant her sister wound a knot around the two pouches that carried them. 

Watching her older sister tread through ice and snow still stunned her to think that she’d left her entire career behind for their family’s sake--and for her own. and she was as grateful as she was guilty, even while the rational side of her mind whispered that there was nothing she nor any of them could have done. 

They were all that was left of what was once House Dansereau, what was the culmination of their ancestors’ efforts in rising to a title amidst the knights and heroes of Ishgard. 

And so they continued to exist, persist--even as they fell further in their descent, from city spires to snow-swept highlands, and now in the shadow of the Chocobo forest--Apolline would not let her die. both of them could only wait for any miracle of news that the others had made it out alive as well, as they had separated in opposing directions, purposefully for the chance of being caught meant that others were still alive and well elsewhere. It was still a possibility that brought a heaviness to her feet, a chill up her spine. Apolline told her that a bounty on their heads was sure to be upheld, and the chances of being sought after even outside of Coerthas couldn’t be discounted. 

(”and what will we do then?” she had whispered, eyes tired and weary, bearskin of water between her gloved hands.)

(”we find another way.” her sister casts her gaze to the firelight, sharp as steel but dulled and drained.)


	23. paternal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _adj._ showing a kindness and care associated with a father; fatherly.
> 
> takes place during 3.0 when they first enter tailfeather.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a loose association to the prompt but i took it more as hortense showing a side of her she would've never had if they hadn't been forced to run away for the tragic reasons that they did.

“No, I mean--you. Slaying _dragons_?!” Euphemie had truly outdone herself this time. Hortense had always known her sister to be the adventurous one, the prankster one, the one pushing the limits--but this was different. This was a new level of danger, one that she was unwilling to see any of her family venture into. 

“Since when did _you_ start sounding like mother?” The younger woman froze, swallowed, and turned her gaze towards her lap, where her two gloved hands rested. 

Euphemie’s expression was worn firm and resolute, eyes fixed and jaw set. It was a look that Hortense had never seen on her--at least, not this complete. Though she had just begun piecing all that had happened to her sister together, in a broken-glass mosaic of stories associated with nothing less of a legend, part of her dared not to imagine the parts left untold, the sights only her sister had seen, known, and felt, and most importantly never dared to tell anyone else. As open of a book Euphemie seemed at first glance, Hortense was quite aware--perhaps moreso than anyone else--that she, too, had secrets of her own. 

“Whether you like it or not this is what I’m doing--what I’ve been doing. And I’m having a rather grand time with it,” She breathed a bitter laugh.

“...for the most part, at least.” Hortense raised an eyebrow, detecting the lie. It was all over her, the way her shoulders sagged, the shadows under her eyes. Unlike Apolline, neither of them were fit for a life of obligation, as they ducked behind every wall, every sparse hedge to dodge the weight of duty as they knew it. Whatever brought her sister here, to Dravania, and to the home that would no longer _have_ them--must be a frightening force to contend with, having captured a spirit so free as her own. 

Hortense sighed and turned to the man in the ink-black armor who stood at a distance away from where they sat. Though the horned helm concealed most of his expression, save for his lips pressed in a thin dull line, it took less than a minute of staring for it to dawn on her.

“Don’t tell me all of this has to do with him,” She hissed between clenched teeth, head nudged in his direction. Euphemie snorted.

“Even if it did--”

“So it does.” Hortense squinted as her sister turned her sight to the ground.

“Not entirely.”

“But enough for all of this.” The younger Dansereau wrenched her fingers in her long hair, sighing.

“I heard what _that woman_ said.” She doesn’t say her name, but spits it out like poison, like the blood her kind forced down their brother’s throat.

“You’re trying to stop a war that’s gone on longer than you and me and Pol and everyone in all of Tailfeather--nay, all of Coerthas--combined! By being in league with **_heretics_**.” Her elbows locked as she leaned in closer, daring her sister to look back at her with the same burning anger, the same gnawing pain. She is supposed to be just as bitter as she is, left to wander the realm in search of something they can never have again. The idea that she could join hands with the very ones responsible for everything that had transpired, for everything they had lost--left Hortense appalled. 

Just as she feared, the look Euphemie sent in return was not the one she expected.

“And yet even you admit it. This is bigger than any of us standing on our own. If we don’t hear what each side has to offer, we’ll be no better than those risking neck and limb for an incomplete truth.” 

“So they’ve made a _diplomat_ out of you. Thoroughly unimpressed barely scratched the surface of Hortense’s current ire as she laughed mirthlessly.

“Don’t think for a _second_ that this all of this sits perfectly well with me.” Her sister sent her a scowl. 

“They know things we don’t.” 

“Things _not worth knowing. Egads_ Euphie--it’s like you’re turning into one of them!” Hortense stood on quivering legs, feeling her breath hitch as she stared at her, at the girl she thought she knew better than anyone else. 

“Then so be it.” 

“...What.” 

Hortense breathes, as the same shade of silver met her own, filled with something other than dread and disbelief. Something inconceivable. 

“I don’t care what it takes anymore. I’ve almost died too many times to be scared--” 

A shudder of a giggle rumbled in her throat as she stood on her own two feet, adjusting her hair over her shoulder.

“--I just. I just want to do something right. And this could be it. This _will_ be it.” For the first time she meets Hortense’s eyes again, a gaze filled with brightness and darkness, what should be a stark divide instead melded into one, terrifying color, one that almost sends her running away. 

Hope and despair. Faith and doubt. 

“...I don’t expect you to understand. I--I shouldn’t have.”

Euphemie smiled, small and softly, before making her leave.

Hortense feels it eat away at her heart, the onslaught of hot tears rolling down her cheeks as she watched her sister return to those who had accompanied her, rays of Dravanian sunlight caught in her loose waves.


	24. splinter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _v._ break or cause to break into small sharp fragments.
> 
> backstory and mini-exploration of sorts for euphemie's older sister, apolline ~~polly~~. all of this is prior to them moving to coerthas.

Apolline is grounded, rooted like a tree. and she has always been so, even before she could remember. 

Her mother would often recount those moments--in which _her A_ polline, tall even in her childhood, remained graciously still for the painter to finish his masterpiece, sitting perfectly poised and serene at the tender age of five--in which her Apolline, took part in the choir of Saint Reymanaud’s Cathedral, outdoing the other children in the solemnity and profoundness of the lyrics of praise for the Fury--and of course, her Apolline, at the fruition of her hard-earned efforts as a squire, dubbed as an official knight before a transfixed crowd. 

Perhaps it was unexpected to some that for two people so different, they got along swimmingly. and they always had, for the Lady Dansereau could never recall being disrespected by her eldest gem of a daughter. Apolline was careful at treading within the finely drawn paths of their relationship, ordained by yet another definition of honor, a word that served as the intersection of what seemed like every fury-fearing individual within the city walls, and to those beyond them, as well--the burden of the devoted, the branded claim of an Ishgardian.

She had few friends beyond those seeking the glory of knighthood as herself. And even among them she seemed the most dull, the most reserved. While they strolled down cobbled, snow-dusted streets the others would weave tales of dreams, of felling Wyrms and sending their leathery corpses plummeting to the cCerthan snow--and of finding the rest of them, too, nonstop until the damned horde was diminished down to the last dragon. When they asked her what she imagined her prey to be like--a young, scampering thing like an overgrown summer bug, or a veteran, strong and abled and all the more promise of glory that came with slaying it--Apolline simply smiled cooly and said she would take whatever she could get, whatever chance she was given. Not the most creative of answers but an answer nonetheless, reaffirming her resolve, providing the foundation of the same belief all good knights were said to have--an unfailing, unwavering sense of duty, untarnished by selfish desires. 

Selfless was said to be one’s devotion to the Fury, and knightood was her chosen method of expressing it. though born the oldest, her father’s family insisted that only a male could take on the reins of leadership, and thus she was cast to the side on the first night she was born. Apolline knew that her mother would have preferred a son, just as the rest of them did, but she was grateful nonetheless that the woman had a mind to look after her with the love and care that she would have given a boy, for whenever she remembered her childhood days she remembered wanting for nothing, and having everything. even when she was sidelined further with the addition of one, two, three sisters--Apolline made do with the shrinking spaces she was given, ever selfless, ever devoted as she offered herself to the wet nurses to look after the older one as the younger was still swaddled and helpless without another to care for her. 

Her sisters call her for many things--Apple, Pol, and Polly--things that made her scowl like she’d caught whiff of a soured scent. But her sisters back then were much too cute, round and rosy-cheeked with eyes much brighter than her own--and she let it slide, and saved her ire for her peers who dared to do the same. 

She adored her family in a muted, subtle way--like the moon kept vigil behind the mountains, giving a light that guided, and never blinded. Her piety, it seemed, extended to them as much as it did for hHalone--a comparison turned cause for concern. 

There were times during masses, flanked by her parents to the left and her sisters to the right, that she strayed from the fervent words of the man praying and crept along her own. She knew what a life of knighthood entailed--or at least, knew enough that it meant leaving her family for long periods of time. All in the name of duty, of course--but a thorn resided in her heart, nagging and tugging at the anticipated grief that would come with leaving a home she had become too comfortable with. This was a problem she kept to herself, for she feared being questioned about her faith as much as any other--and she knew she would have to choose for her own, but not without seeking the counsel of the goddess, of course. 

Such an act on its own gave Apolline her answer, and thus she aided their servants in undoing her bed for the last time, and made ready her goodbyes. her family had already been awaiting her in the hallway--her siblings all lined in a straight, mannerly row. to this day it makes her smile, remembering how well behaved they seemed that moment, that had a stranger walked in on the sight they would have believed them to be tamed. Apolline remembered that scarcely a second flew by before the girls were on her, clinging and sniffling, trying to drag her knees to the floor with them, begging her not to go. their image of being perfect young ladies dressed and ready at an early morning hour, for their prayers and their lessons, fell apart in an instant, all because of her. And of course she laughed and patted their heads, already wearing the sturdy gloves their father had commissioned as one of many parting gifts--all practical to suit her needs, but it only meant that she would be reminded of him and of home all the more often. 

Her mother had been the last to see her off. To this day Apolline believes it’s because she had fought back tears as an effort to look her best, for what would be the last in a very long time, in front of her daughter, her Apolline. there were traces of her struggle in the redness of her dewy, sky-blue hues--the ones her eldest and youngest daughters had been blessed with. She held back an embrace for a tight hold around both her gloved hands, clutching at the space between long, tapering fingers--a trait of her father’s--and uttering a parting prayer. Her mother’s smile afterwards was full of pride, but not without a certain sadness that weighed at the corners. 

And she left. Through the doors of the Dansereau Manor, down the steps of the pillars, through the gates of judgment, like a pine dragging its roots down under the ground, stretched but still sturdy, from where it first sprouted. 


End file.
